Z'bor, A'lira


An Igen Wii2 and a Southern Wii2 shoot the breeze and drink some whiskey.


-- On Pern --
It is 12:56 PM where you are.
It is noon of the twenty-fifth day of the tenth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the eighty-fifth day of Autumn and 87 degrees. The day dawns bright and clear. Everything is coated in sand, but no clouds linger on the horizon.
In Southern:
It is the eighty-fifth day of Spring and 94 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day with a gentle wind.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the eighty-fifth day of Spring and 21 degrees. It's really damn cold out.


Igen Weyr, Bazaar, Dustbowl Cantina

OOC Date 26 Apr 2018 06:00


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"They breed, man."


Dustbowl Cantina

To enter the Dustbowl Cantina is to descend: the heart of the ancient tavern lies half underground, at the foot of ancient steps, insulated from summer heat and winter cold by the volcanic rock surrounding it. A windowless place well-lit by glows, it is homey, even cozy, with a certain bijou charm - but for the deep gouges worn in wooden table and solid stone, some clearly lingering evidence of boisterous brawling. The wall behind the well-polished bar, though, remains free from scars or graffiti, as does the door into the small kitchen, and the stairwell up into the owner's quarters: the barkeep and his staff reign, and they guard their territory well. After all, only a fool angers the source of the booze.

It's a warm day in Igen, but not so hot that the day can't be enjoyed. As Rukbat's rays shine down on the desert weyr, they land also on the head of a stranger moving through Igen's bazaar. Z'bor's been up for some shopping, appreciating a bit of Igen's dry heat over the humidity of Southern. He's been to visit an old blueriding friend and to a few of the shops already and now, it's time for a drink in his favorite Igen bar. He swings in his purchases heavy in his rucksack and meanders to the bar where a double finger of Zingari Red is ordered with haste. He'll be visiting the caravan soon enough, but he's too thirsty to finish the trek to the grounds just now.

To each climate, a quirk; to each population, the drawbacks and the plusses. For A'lira, there's something about endless, trackless desert is somewhat soothing, anda certain comfort in knowing the lazy don't do well here. And of course, the draw of the Dustbowl Cantina, with its many drinks on tap is an especial advantage on a day like today! A'lira is already settled at a table, a glass of Red in hand, reports everywhere on the table before him.. Yawningly dull ones regarding Thread patterns and weather, if his expression is any indication.

Z'bor gets his drink and settles himself at a bar stool near A'lira's table, settling his pack between his feet on the floor where he can see it, and keep people out of it. He's been coming to Igen's bazaar long enough to know that an unwatched bag is an open invitation to thievery. He turns to get a view of the bar and A'lira comes into view. Recognizing the rider from their flight encounter back when, he smiles and waves when next the man looks up.

A'lira's attention is caught by that wave, and returns it almost absently — until he remembers where he knows Z'bor's face from. Southern — and that early flight Kyprioth'd won, quite un his expectedly. He gathers up those reports and shoves them into a satchel, deciding that part of being an excellent wingsecond is fostering positive relations between Weyrs. So he waves back to Z'bor, and offers the man a place at his table.

An offer Z'bor will gladly take! Gathering his things, he moves to sit with A'lira and sets his rucksack in the seat next to him. And he manages without spilling a drop of his whiskey, of which, he orders more. "Greetings friend. It's been a long time." Z'bor gives a warm smile and offers his free hand in greeting, since they both hold the same rank. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good, pretty good." A'lira settles back, taking a sip if his drink and eyeing Z'bor with wry amusement. "But these reports will be the death of me. K'kar's handwriting is terrible. So how you been?"

Z'borsettles into his chair and gets comfortable, signaling to the barkeep that he'd like a bottle of the whiskey brought to the table. He eyes the reports in front of A'lira and sighs, shaking his head. "I feel your pain brother, I was up to my neck in those before I left, barely escaped before a new batch came in. After all, a Wingsecond needs time to himself too, right?" Z'bor chuckles at his joke and takes a drink from his tumbler, everyone knows that Wii2 free time is a myth.

"They breed, man." A'lira grumbles. "You got five t'start and then blink; y'got twenty." He knows Z'bor understands the feels on that. "Some days Igraine don't see me all day. And with a new kid, well — yeah."

Z'bor laughs a bit and nods. "Aye, they do tend to do that." Z'bor doesn't know who Igraine is, but after the kid comment, he can take an educated guess. "COngratulations, got two myself." Z'bor beams, managing to be a father on top of being a rider is one of his best accomplishments, or in his opinion anyhow.

A'lira shall see, very soon, what it's like to try and balance the domestic and the military halves of his life; for now, the baby is much too young to require the kind of chasing about a toddler soon will. Good thing they both have so many winged eyes about! "Two, huh? What's that like?" He might as well get the skinny now, from someone who's been at it longer.

“Crazier than flying a dragon in full fall with no leathers on, but I love every minute of it, and Ozriath adores the littles.” Z’bor cracks a wide smile and runs a hand through his hair. “How old is your kid?” A’lira had said new but, that could be anywhere from birth to a turn old or a foster kid or stepchild. And Z’bor can’t be sure which, so he asks instead.

Oh, dear; A’lira is going to be in a crapton of trouble, isn’t he. He actually looks faintly worried at Z’bor’s description, frowning as he takes a healthy swig of his drink before leaning in to be sure he gets all the information. “He’s six weeks old, now. Revaerys. He’s a foster child - a dancer who didn’t feel she would be able to properly raise him because of her age and the father’s being Searched before they knew she was pregnant. Igraine wanted to foster, and I wasn’t about to say no.”

“A wee boy then. Boys are a handful for sure, my boy is seven turns old and still surprises me on the daily, my daughter is nearing six.” Z'bor looks thoughtful on the fostering situation and nods. “Wise man.” He says in regards to A'lira allowing his mate to foster. “Is your mate a rider too?” One never knows with women, what with the honorific not making the distinction like it does with men. And Z'bor could, for all intensive purposes, find out through Ozriath, but this way is more fun, and more genuine.

A’lira chuckles softly. “It wasn't wisdom so much as complete agreement. The poor girl clearly needed help. And I have never been averse to helping someone who needed it. And… well, I want children.” An unusual attitude for a young man, but there it is; he has unusual desires, this tall brown rider. “Igraine? Actually, she's a Zingari healer.”

Z'bor's features show sympathy for the girl A'lira speaks of and he smiles brightly when the brownrider speaks of wanting children. “That's how I felt when one of my weyrmate’s flight lovers dropped a squalling baby boy on our doorstep. Never regretted taking him in either.” Recognition sprouts on the green riding man's face when A'lira speaks of the Zingari. “Ah, yes, I have been fortunate enough to escape sickness or injury when visiting the Zingari Caravans, which is probably why I don't know her. I have a small addiction to their whiskey, I don't think I've ever tasted better.” Speaking of, Z'bor lifts his glass and drains it, just as the bottle is arriving. Now, that's good timing.

It's likely no secret that A’lira is a fairly softhearted fellow, even when he's working. His grin is affectionate as he thinks of his baby boy. “Best decision I ever made, other than accepting Candidacy.” He seems to be a much slower drinker than Z’bor, for he still has plenty in his glass when the bottle arrives. “Mmm, yes, that'd be a good thing. She does see a lot of non-Zingari drunks on festival nights.”

“I bet she does. I've been to a fair few, particularly since a couple of wingmates of mine have transferred up here over the turns. I visit often, mostly to restock on whiskey and colorful trinkets for the kids, but it's fun nonetheless.” Another sip of his whiskey and Z'bor is looking around. “That being said, I'm here for a couple of days and I've still not seen the whole of the bazaar. Any suggestions?”

“Oh? Who?” And now A’lira is dying to know who these transfers are. He may know them, he may not. With some three hundred or so riders in a Weyr, it's impossible to really know them all. “Hmmm… I admit I've always preferred the Zingari to the Bazaar, so I honestly can't point you to the best places, though I've heard many of our randier types like Rosie’s.”

“T’ral, rider of blue Esanth and G’rud, rider of brown Xickth.” Z'bor lists off the names, sure at least one would be recognized because of his rank and dragonhealer status. As for the bazaar suggestion, Z'bor wrinkles his nose a bit in distaste. “I've been there before, got drug there by a couple of wingmates, not my particular taste, that.” No, for the most part, this green rider likes his lovers nubile and male, though there is an acception or two to the rule.

“Oh, T’ral! Trained with him in dragonhealing. We still pass the time in the Yard once in awhile.” A’lira is quite fond of the fellow, and the odd hours they keep keeping up their skills. “Dunno the other guy too well, though.” As for Rosie’s, he does make a little snort of agreement. “Never was my style either, even when I was single. Always much preferred the Zingari. Coulda been my mother startin’ life as a trader brat’s influence, or somethin’.” He, too, much prefers masculine company these days, with an obvious, very lovely, exception. His, all his!

“Aye! That's the one. They're both good men, good riders. “ There's a smile for A'lira when he admits to having something in common with Z'bor and the green rider smiles widely in response. And the next couple of hours are spent in good conversation, one wing second to another and a sort of friendship is forged, even if they are from different weyrs. Which is good business, right? Eventually though, Z'bor has to leave and he parts with a smile on his face and most of a bottle of red.

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